Movin' On Up?

I’m not downsizing. I’m upgrading. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

There’s no doubt about it. Among those of us over 40, the second leading cause of death isn’t cancer, heart disease, or even diabetes. No, my friends.

It’s moving.

The second leading cause of death among the over 40 crowd isn’t cancer. It’s moving.

We recently moved from a house to an apartment. To bring you up to speed, the last time I lived in an apartment, I was 22, wore bell bottoms, and came with no baggage (SJF-Single Jewish Female) except one frayed ottoman, curlers the size of inner tubes, 500 books and one mezuzah – for one room. My “palace” was a studio apartment.

For those who live anywhere but Manhattan, a “studio” is a small but cozy one room “pad,” usually with an “L”-shape somewhere. In Manhattan, where space is $100 an inch, a “studio” was once a “charming” five foot high supply closet – before they renovated. If you see Manhattanites walking sway-backed and ducking, they live in a studio.

The terrific news was, the whole move took two trips in a borrowed Ram Van, and three friends who “owed” me. One to help shlep, one to drive back and forth from Queens (my parents’ house) to Manhattan (Freeedom!), the third to lie prostrate on the street to save the parking space. I decorated quickly. My taste? “Multi-task.” My ottoman was: a bed, guest seating, a dining table, a desk plus desk chair. The effect was “junkyard.” But it was my junkyard – even if I had to step over the bed to the shower head in the kitchen “area.”

Flash-forward a generation. Picture it. Me, in a long shmatte with a college logo I never went to, slathered in “muscle-pain be-gone” ointment.

As for “baggage,” I had enough “stuff” to fill the cargo hold of the QE2. The contents of four houses, including three incomplete sets of dishes, five non-matching sets of silverware, two dozen sheets that fit nothing, one working computer with assorted parts from six others, 1,000 articles, 100,000 pieces of paper (and gum wrappers) with “must-have” ideas,” 3,000 photos and items of “memorabilia,” and 5,000 books. Oh, and the contents of five medicine cabinets filled with Ace bandages, Gingko Biloba, and a dazzling array of chalky pink liquids.

All I had to do was fit this stuff into an apartment less than ½ the size of my house. What to get rid of? Trust me. In addition to a major cause of death, moving is the primary reason for family dissolution.

We dug in. A process that caused my inner ears to explode and my husband to lose feeling in both his legs. “We have to be ruthless,” said my husband, who has a filing cabinet for matchbook covers.

Hmmm. If we took only the good furniture (four pieces) and kept it to a hundred cartons by eliminating half the books and papers (ten thousand), we could fit it all in, providing we didn’t plan to use a hallway.

Day one was a breeze. I threw out six huge baggies of greasy Tupperware.

Day 12. My arm was buried in a dish carton marked “FRAGILE,” into which I was tossing a 1983 World Almanac! The same carton my husband wanted to use for his 12 City College mugs. “You touch this and I’ll break your mugs!” I said, clutching the tattered pages to my chest.

We glared. Impasse.

Forty-eight hours to moving day. I was in the same shmatte, humming Abba Dabba Honeymoon while making concentric circles in the dust as my husband threw anything that wasn’t radioactive or half-eaten into anything with a lid. He railed for me to help.

I couldn’t hear him. My ears closed up ten days ago at about the same time his eyelids developed an astounding flutter.

The moving men arrived. They weighed our boxes. We were told their original estimate could be off by five per cent. Ours was off by 3,000 pounds. Did we want to eliminate something?

We volunteered each other.

Somehow, we moved!

“Welcome to your new apartment,” said the building manager, as the moving men, plus three of my son’s friends who were bouncers in a former life, tried to fit a five foot, 500 pound piano in a 4-foot service elevator.

With the exception of a few mishaps involving trusses, torn ligaments, and weird fractures that are only found in elephant hunters in Borneo, our stuff “fit!” Sort of.

We looked around. Then at each other. “Where’s the phone?” I asked my husband. “I saw it ... in the boxes with the soy sauce packets. Maybe.” Oyyyyy.

“The sofa!” I shrieked. Now, this sofa had been a bone of contention. It was the one piece I bought retail. Real simulated leather. I loved that sofa! My son loved that sofa! For days, he argued. “It won’t FIT in your place! I should have it!” The logic was flawless – except for the fact that he was (thankfully) moving in with a friend whose digs were the size of a peanut can. Now, the “subject” in question, was lodged (OK, stuck), halfway between the bathroom and kitchen. “Told you so!” he smirked.

“Enough!” I said. “Coffee break!”

Without having taken a good look at my new digs, hidden by massive cartons and sofas, I ran out.

For decades, I’d just open a door, and Boom! The great outdoors. Now, I had to find the great outdoors. First, the elevator. “F,” “LL,” “W,” “P,” “1"? But where is, “‘OUT?!” I frantically pushed “1" and met a nice lady who ran an aviary – in 1B. She led me to the lobby, and asked about my key. So that’s what that thing was! The manager had hurriedly given me a thingamabob when I moved in. I’d stared at the plastic rectangle like E.T. studying a cellular, and wondered if it was some kind of Southwestern decoration.

I managed to open three doors. The fourth? Bupkes. Finally, the 90-year-old doorman gave me instructions. “Push it, ma’am.”

From the 7-eleven across the street, I finally looked at “my” building and imagined the marvelous possibilities. It’s amazing what a giant mochacino and a little distance can do.

Renewed, I dialed the first “HELP!!” service in the book. An hour later, “he” arrived. Don. An angel in a shmutz-stained shirt with a hammer, saying “no big deal” when I pointed to the sofa – in the bathroom!

“No big deal” – the sweetest words I’d ever heard.

And so Don entered our orbit. Things are now being unpacked, filed, hung, and, as I type this, painted.

I chose rose for the living room. Don thinks yellow is perfect for the halls. But we agree a platform for the piano would be such a quirky “design element.”

The other day the fridge spewed out strange stuff. I called “downstairs” and boom! A “Larry” fixed it, 1, 2, 3. I started imagining a life where things like plumbing --actually work. Had I been nuts all these years? Us? “Us” who think needle nose plyers is a male hygiene product in a house?

Then, we moved a carton, and I saw it. A light switch! To a view! From my balcony there it was, the Vegas landscape, from the towering hotels to the majestic Red Rock mountains!

My husband is now soaking his foot in the communal hot tub. His eyelids are down to two flutters a minute. We just finished painting the living room.

I love my living room.

I’m about to bring fruit to the terrace. And I’m smiling.

I love my terrace.

I love the precious stuff that has traveled with me, chronicling this hooty adventure.

I love my apartment.

Sure, sometimes I still get off on strange floors.

But hey, isn’t that true of everything in a life?

The way I figure, even if you get a little lost, it’s just one more journey to embrace.

About the Author

Quirky, no-nonsense, funny, Marnie – writer, editor, author, lecturer, clinician, and administrator -- is a straight-shooter, who has a distinctive voice and takes on the world in her columns, features, and books. Her advice column was syndicated through Tribune Media Services, and it currently appears in Singular magazine as Singular Solutions. Marnie has written over 20 books/calendars, including the series “A Little Joy, A Little Oy." Her books include Yiddishe Mamas: The Truth About the Jewish Mother and A Little Joy, A Little Oy (pub. AndrewsMcMeel). She is also an award-winning “calendar queen” having written over 20. She has been nominated for both an Emmy and Writers Guild award.Thefullwiki.org has listed Marnie Macauley on their list of top Jewish_American writers, dead or living. (She’s still deciding which.) She was also chosen as a Distinguished Woman in Las Vegas in March of 2014.

The opinions expressed in the comment section are the personal views of the commenters. Comments are moderated, so please keep it civil.

Visitor Comments: 9

(9)
Jeannie,
August 29, 2010 3:49 AM

So true!I re-read your article freequently and laugh!

We're packing up9my husband is recovering fom a hip replacement, and I have had hip and knee replacement. We've lived here 38 years. our house to move to a one-floor condo. No stairs

(8)
josh,
August 28, 2010 11:08 PM

VERY FUNNY, VERY TRUE

My family and I loved this! Marnie, thanks. We think you're the best! You've made us laugh, you've made us think, you've made us better Jews! Congrats to you, Jewlarious and AISH!
Dr.. Josh, Justus and Jill

(7)
GEORGE & SHARI,
August 26, 2010 1:22 AM

"FOND" MEMORIES

Thanks, Marnie, for the so true, so funny article! As I told my husband, the only way I'm moving out of here is in a BOX!!!
YOU REMINDED ME WHY:)
Shari

(6)
JUDY,
August 25, 2010 5:23 PM

HYSTERICAL

LOVED THIS! Reading it, it felt like an old friend was talking to me! a great read! thanks!
The Portney family

(5)
tiddles,
August 25, 2010 9:52 AM

your story

love it love it love it.........i painted a picturee in my head of all the action lol why dont you write a novel huni?

(4)
Stewart Perry,
August 24, 2010 7:44 PM

Kudos to the Author!

Wonderful! Wonderful! It is not only incredibly descriptive, but it lets me know what the author FELT in her move.
Thank you, Marnie!
Stewart Perry

(3)
Sharon,
August 24, 2010 7:29 PM

STILL LAUGHING!

This is so true and so hysterical! I vowed after my last move the only way I was leaving was in a basket! BTW. Kudos to Marni! I've enoyed both her great wit and information so often!
Sharon Merman

(2)
Mr Mel,
August 24, 2010 4:06 PM

Back To The Future

20 something years ago, my wife and I moved back to the city from the child rearing suburbs. We had put all our stuff in storage a few weeks before because the couple we sold our house to had a clause in the contract allowing them to move in on a certain day. Our apartment wasn't ready at the time so we crashed with a cousin on the Upper West Side. After the movers, my wife, my daughters and associated friends helped us unpack and set up I led the whole mob to a nearby Pub to celebrate. After that broke up and everyone went on their way, my wife and I returned to our new digs. It was a cold November night and we elected to have a nightcap on our balcony. We fleeced ourselves up and went outside and it started to snow. We knew we had done it right.

(1)
melanie,
August 24, 2010 3:02 PM

Funny, Marnie--

A great plug for divesting oneself of a house full of other lives we cling to living, long after they've passed. Mazel tov on the new place.

I always loved the story of Jonah and the whale. Why do we read it during the afternoon service of Yom Kippur?

The Aish Rabbi Replies:

Let's recap the story: God tells Jonah to go to Ninveh and to prophesy that in 40 days, God will destroy the city. Instead, Jonah goes to Jaffa, boards a ship, and sails for Tarshish. A great storm arises. Frightened, Jonah goes to sleep in the ship's hold. The sailors somehow recognize that Jonah is responsible for the storm. They throw him overboard, and the sea becomes calm.

A great fish swallows Jonah. Then three days later, God commands the fish to spit Jonah back out upon dry land. God tells Jonah, "Let's try it again. Go to Ninveh and tell them in 40 days I will destroy the city."

The story is a metaphor for our struggle for clarity. Jonah is the soul. The soul is assigned to sanctify the world, and draw it close to God. But we are seduced by the world's beauty. (Jaffa in Hebrew means "beauty.") The ship is the body, the sea is the world, and the storm is life's pains and troubles. God hopes confrontation with mortality will inspire us to examine our lives. But Jonah's is the more common response - we go to sleep (have a beer, turn on the television). The sailors throw Jonah overboard - this is death. The fish that swallows Jonah is the grave. Jonah is spat back upon the land - reincarnation. And the Almighty tells us to try again. "Go sanctify the world and bring it close to God."

Each of us is born with an opportunity and a challenge. We each have unique gifts to offer the world and unique challenges to perfect ourselves. If we leave the task unfinished the first time, we get a second chance. Jonah teaches us that repentance can reverse a harsh decree. If the residents of Ninveh had the ability to correct their mistakes and do teshuva, how much more so do we have the ability to correct our former mistakes and do teshuva.

(source: "The Bible for the Clueless But Curious," by Rabbi Nachum Braverman)

In 1948, Egypt launched a large-scale offensive against the Negev region of Israel. This was part of the War of Independence, an attack by five Arab armies designed to "drive the Jews into the sea." Though the Jews were under-armed, untrained, and few in number, through ingenuity and perseverance they staved off the attacks and secured the borders. Yet the price was high -- Israel lost 6,373 of its people, a full one percent of the Jewish population of Israel at the time.

And what does teshuvah consist of? [Repentance to the degree] that the One Who knows all that is hidden will testify that he will never again repeat this sin(Maimonides, Laws of Teshuvah 2:2).

"How can this be?" ask the commentaries. "Inasmuch as man always has free choice to do good or evil, to sin or not to sin, how can God testify that a person will never repeat a particular sin? Is this not a repudiation of one's free will?"

The answer to this came to me at a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, at which the speaker, a man who had been sober for twenty-one years, said, "The man I was drank. The man I was will drink again. But now I am a different man."

A sin does not occur in a vacuum. A person who is devout does not abruptly decide to eat treifah. A sin occurs when a person is in such a state that a particular act is not anathema to him.

Consequently, repentance is not complete if one merely regrets having done wrong. One must ask, "How did this sin ever come about? In what kind of a state was I that permitted me to commit this sin?"

True repentance thus consists of changing one's character to the point where, as the person is now, one can no longer even consider doing the forbidden act. Of course, the person's character may deteriorate - and if it does, he may sin again.

God does not testify that the person will never repeat the sin, but rather that his degree of repentance and correction of his character defects are such that, as long as he maintains his new status, he will not commit that sin.

Today I shall...

try to understand how I came to do those things that I regret having done, and bring myself to a state where such acts will be alien to me.

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